


If only you could understand...

by Kazaha_87



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Unresolved Feelings, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:26:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7028455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazaha_87/pseuds/Kazaha_87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a northern winter's afternoon in Denmark's house, a stream of thoughts and unresolved feelings starts hitting Iceland while overhearing Norway and Denmark quarrel in the next room as always and, maybe it's only winter's faults, maybe not, Norway and Denmark suffer the same fate too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ísland: If only you could understand that, more than him, the one whom I’m annoyed at is you…

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first Hetalia fanfic, and it's divided in three short chapters: the first one is from Iceland POV, the second from Norway and the third from Denmark, but I don't like first person povs very much and I'm terrible at them, so it's written in third person. XD  
> Also, if you find any grammar mistakes feel free to tell me about them and I'll fix them asap: english is not my native language, so I'm positive that there might be some, but I don't have a beta... so, sorry in advance.
> 
> About the names and some words, I decided to use the ones in their national language (made exception for "Norway", 'cause I'm pretty sure that in Icelandic it isn't Norge, but google translate seemed a bit confused about it... LOL).  
> And yes, I used google translate, but I hope that for single words it still works good enough...
> 
> So, in short, in this fic:  
> Norway is Norge (always);  
> Iceland is Ísland (always too);  
> lillebror is little brother and storebror is big brother (bror is brother, as you can easily guess) in Norwegian (and in Danish it seems);  
> Denmark is Danmörk in Iceland's POV and Danmark in Nor's and Den's POVs;  
> stóri bróðir is big brother (and bróðir is brother) in Icelandic;  
> takk is thank you in Norwegian and in Icelandic... and I think that's all XD
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this little story! :D

“Annoying!”, he heard coming from the living room. “You’re too close, bror! You sure know how to sit straight, damn, so why can’t you stay in your half of the sofa without invading mine for once?!”

Then the usual dull sound of something big and heavy – Danmörk– hitting most definitely the floor and likely leaving a bump where he fell followed the yelling complaint.

He was so used to this kind of development, and it usually happened a few times a day, and for so many silly reasons he couldn’t count…

Even Nor’s and Dan’s phrases, respectively yelled and cried at each other, were always the same…

Over the centuries that had grown up to be a routine. A never-changing routine: day after day, it was always the same between those two, and he was _so_ tired of it.

Then, as always, Norge left the living room and joined him in the kitchen, sitting down at the table, right in front of him.

His features, as always, were unperturbed as if nothing had happened, but he knew Norge, and he could read the annoyance behind his stone face.

Then, without him even asking, Ísland passed him a steaming mug of grog: the man’s favorite.

“Takk”, he only muttered in reply.

As always.

And as always he didn’t answer back.

He watched as the older man took a couple of sips of the hot liquor, and how his features softened ever so slightly after that, allowing what most similar to a smile he knew Norge was able to show on his face in normal circumstances, an expression that most people wouldn’t even recognize as such.

Thinking back at it, in more than a millennia he had seen him smile – a real smile, not that faint shadow of it that Norge wore most of the time when he happened to be relaxed – only a few times.

It _always_ happened when he called him “stóri bróðir” – big brother – and, for that reason, in the past he’d always liked to call him that, because that had always made him feel kind of special to him, sure like only a child could be sure of something that he was the only one able to elicit such a reaction in him.

But more or less three centuries ago, _once_ – and it was enough – he saw that same fond smile softening Norge’s already soft and almost feminine features – the only part of him that could be vaguely compared to females – when he shouldn’t have seen it, when the man had entered his own room, sure to be alone there, after the umpteenth quarrel – if it should be called that, after all – with bróðir Dan.

That time he had experienced firsthand and maybe for the first time ever what real hatred was, even if later he discovered that what he had felt that time had another name, a more fitting one: jealousy.

Still, he was pretty sure, even after so long, that that stupid Danmörk never knew that Norge had feelings for him. But that, if possible, made him hate the man even more.

And still, he lived with the two of them when he could, in Danmörk’s house.

Neither him was sure why, actually, but he did. Even if he hated it.

Even if it hurt.

“I miss summer”, Norge awakened him from his train of thought and the both of them lightly sighed, even if for different reasons.

Not that Norge noticed, by the way…

He was older than him, but the man was pretty dull too, and he no longer seemed to understand him.

In truth, more than once Ísland asked himself if Norge ever really understood him, and he wasn’t sure of the answer.

By the way, he, on the other hand, could easily understand why the man was obsessed with him calling him stóri bróðir: they had grown apart since that time, and he knew that Norge never understood how it had happened that, pretty much overnight, their perfect relationship had deteriorated so badly.

He sighed again while silently cursing for the man’s stupidity, and Norge read it wrong again as if confirming his conviction.

“At least here there are a few hours of light this time of the year.”, the older man went on and faintly smiled at him again, as if wanting to lighten up his little brother’s mood as much as his own, probably.

“You can stay in Oslo. It’s not so different from here, after all.”, he commented quite harshly for no reason at all – at least from Norge’s point of view – and in fact, to that, the bigger nation suddenly flinched in what seemed uneasiness, and for just a moment he appeared surprised by his own reaction more than Ísland had shown to be of it.

A heavy silence descended upon them, and both of them knew why even if he was sure that Norge didn’t figure out that he knew too.

Still: why was _he_ there?

Ísland thought about it for the hundredth time since winter started and he came to the same conclusion he always came to: out of habit.

But, despite that, in the bottom of his heart he knew that, as Norge’s answer to that same question was Danmörk, his, in truth, was Norge and nothing else.

“Hey, you two!”, the missing one suddenly intruded then, as enthusiast and irritating as ever, leaving the TV on in the next room. “What’re you talking about?”, he asked while approaching them and, when he noticed that the mug in front of Norge was still half full he dashed on it and attempted to grab it out of his hand. But to no avail, because every time was the same old thing again, and Norge’s reflexes had always been well developed for a start. Then, the moment later, bróðir Dan found himself smashed against the wall on the other side of the room in a pretty bad shape by Odin’s fist.

As always.

“If you want any, you can just make it for yourself without stealing what’s mine.”, Norge stated without batting an eyelid or feeling the need to turn to watch at him while rebuking him.

As always, bróðir Danmörk started to loudly complain at a healthy distance but, after less than a minute, he was already back over Norge in what might be only an _insane_ impulse to keep closer to the man he considered his best friend and his (favorite) little brother: in fact, instead of going to make his own grog, he went to tamper the other man, begging him to share his drink with him as if he really couldn’t go and make his own for himself.

“Such a drama queen…”, Ísland suddenly grumbled in no more than a whisper, exasperated, and then abruptly rose from his seat and, taking his puffin with him, he left the two of them there, watching at each other for a moment in bewilderment, in hope that the other one knew the reason behind his sudden grudge.

And, as always, neither of them had the slightest clue of why their little brother had gotten so much embittered out of the blue. And, as much as always, he knew oh-too well that Norge would have only blamed ‘storebror Danmark’ for it, totally oblivious of his own faults in that matter.


	2. Norge: If only you could understand what’s behind the façade I always put on…

“Annoying!”, he repeated for the hundredth time that day already when the shock of Ísland’s sudden as much as unfathomable reaction had passed and everything had gotten back to normal and bror Danmark’s full attention was back on _his_ drink. “Go make yours and leave me alone, I said! It’s _mine_!”, he remarked and, after almost a quarter of hour of struggles and begging in vain, Danmark finally gave up on it and moved to make his own share.

When, at last, bror turned his back at him, he heaved a sigh, exhausted by everything, and then he emptied his mug in hope that the alcohol in it could lighten his mood at least a little.

Sure: he knew that to do so he needed far more than just one cup of it – and maybe even more than six or seven – but it would have been nice if it had worked.

All he wanted, really, was to _stop_ thinking.

About the long gone summer.

About Ísland and his acting so grumpily all the time now, when he had been so cute and sweet when he was a child.

And about the stupid Danmark who always exasperated him so much for _everything_!

“And make some more for me too to make it up to me for constantly annoying me, won’t you?”, he added out of the blue, breaking the rare silence that had finally graced his ears and that would have been almost absolute if it hadn’t been for the muffled noises coming from the TV on in the next room.

His tone, while ordering his storebror around, was as sharp as always, and Danmark loudly complained about it, but, in the end, as much as always, he obliged and, a couple of minutes later, he finally filled back Norge’s mug before taking a seat on the chair that Ísland had left empty, as if he knew what his bror was thinking and that taking the younger’s place was maybe the only way to move his attention on something else – something like _him_.

But, what bror Dan seemed unable to understand, unfortunately, was that, for him, _he_ _wasn’t_ a better topic, and certainly not a lighter one…

He didn’t thanked him for the drink and he didn’t even nod at him in sign of gratitude, his gaze lost somewhere out of the window in the twilight of a northern winter’s afternoon not different from any other.

By the way, he knew that Danmark wouldn’t have taken it at heart. He knew that he was used to his rude behavior: that was their routine, after all. Their normality.

What would have happened if, all of a sudden, he’d decided to act differently towards him? Wouldn’t it seem odd?

Still watching at the crepuscular horizon, his hand moved on something like instinct and grabbed the mug. Then he brought it to his lips and savored its content.

For a fleeting instant he closed his eyes and a hardly noticeable sigh left his throat while his features seemed to soften ever so slightly. Then, the moment later, everything was back to normal, and his stone face was back with it too.

“Admit it: you like mine better!”, Danmark exclaimed out of the blue, his tone knowing and suddenly smug, breaking the silence and distracting him from his train of thought. He sounded so proud of himself, but he was used to that tone and didn’t get affected by it at all.

Instead, he frowned, skeptical, as if challenging him.

“I like lillebror’s better.”, he lied back, keeping a straight face, but he could tell that Danmark didn’t buy it.

“Come on, Nor! Just admit it for once! It’s not as if I’ll tell him!”, the noisy man persisted, as always, but, as every time that he tried to extort him an appreciation of any sort, ever so little, Norge raised his barriers even more and didn’t surrender.

And actually, he _never_ surrendered. Not even once in all those centuries.

So he snorted, annoyed, keeping up the act, and decided to ignore the southern nation in response, knowing that, this way, after a while the silent treatment would have worked on him well enough to cool him off even without Odin’s help.

…not that he didn’t like to see blood on him, especially if he knew that _he_ had caused his bleeding, but he had already hit him pretty hard by then that day, and to let bror’s enthusiasm die _slower_ for a change didn’t seem a bad idea in the moment.

Obviously, he could always change his mind midway if it took too long…

By the way, that didn’t seem to be the case for once, because Danmark surprisingly calmed down quicker than he’d anticipated.

He turned at him when the silence was back, and for a moment he was unable to hide his astonishment.

It had been just an instant, but Danmark’s eyes were locked on him and he didn’t miss it.

Their gazes met for a split second and, taken aback, Norge evoked Odin and, the instant later, Danmark was smashed against the wall once more for that day, this time without a clear reason.

“You’re annoying even when you’re keeping your mouth shut.”, he stated while tossing the chair behind and rising up, his gaze shadowed. Then he turned his back at him and reached the door of the kitchen.

“Nor!”, he heard bror Dan call him back in what sounded a bit confused tone and, on an impulse, for a second he hesitated, but he quickly suppressed the urge to turn back and left instead, leaving the taller man alone at last in a pretty common scenario.


	3. Danmark: If only my feelings could reach you…

_What was that for?_

He would have liked to ask Norge that, but, even if he hadn’t left, he knew that his question would have been left pending.

Sore and aching, then, he lifted up the chair laying on the floor and, putting it back at its place, he sat down again in front of his grog and the still half-full mug only a few inches away from his.

Without thinking, he grabbed Norge’s one instead of his own and drank from it, sighing loudly and not caring to restrain himself or hide his grief.

“Do you really hate me this much?”, he muttered to himself, worn out like so seldom happened to see him, but like he so often used to feel when he was on his own.

He sighed again and, suddenly overwhelmed over the threshold of his psychological resistance, he put down the cup and covered his face with both his hands, his elbows pinned on the sanded table sustaining the weight of his head, and of his sorrow together with it.

He felt his eyes getting puffy, but his resolve was stronger than his tears and he restrained them there until they could do nothing if not retreat.

He was a warrior: he didn’t cry.

Not for such a silly reason.

It’s true: he was violent by nature, he was vindictive and he could be unmerciful and cruel and cold-hearted even with the ones he loved the most if he thought he was right or if he was hurt, but he was also an idealist, and, sometimes, thinking about it, he feared that this last point was also his greatest weakness.

He loved them all, his heart and soul, and he really couldn’t understand why they seemed to just hate or, at best, bear with him such as much instead.

Maybe he had been too bossy along the years and centuries and now everybody was tired of him, but damn: he wasn’t perfect! He knew that he had made many mistakes in the past, but still: why couldn’t they understand how much he loved them?

“Nor… at least you…”, he soughed and, this time, the tears got the better of him despite his efforts to keep them back and he even started to lightly sob.

 _Please… at least you, don’t hate me!_ , he repeated like a mantra in his head, his eyes closed shut.

And he would have never admitted it out loud, but, actually, he always prayed for that at least twice a day: every morning before getting out of bed and every night before going to sleep.

Then, when the tears finally withdrew, he turned towards the window: it was five in the afternoon and outside it was already dark…

“Frigging winter!”, he cursed in a grouse and, punching the table in a groan of frustration, he finally rose from his chair and left the kitchen too. Then he moved to the living room where the TV on seemed to call for him and he sprawled on the sofa.

**Author's Note:**

> So? How did you like it?  
> If you liked this short story (and even if you don't), please, leave a review. I'll appreciate them very much indeed! :)  
> And obviously kudos are also very much appreciated! XD


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